


A Distant Shore

by Midnight_Run



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Anxiety, Asexuality, Canonical Character Death, Explicit Language, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Post-Tsukiyama Extermination Arc (Tokyo Ghoul:re), Psychological Trauma, Spoilers for Tsukiyama Extermination Arc (Tokyo Ghoul :re)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 23:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6259813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight_Run/pseuds/Midnight_Run
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of loss, they move on. (Spoilers for Tokyo Ghoul & Re:Tokyo Ghoul 1-79)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> Please observe the tags/content warnings. They will change from chapter to chapter as needed. Note that this story occurs in the aftermath of Tsukiyama Family Extermination Operation, but incorporates everything learned about this time period from latter chapters (spoiler warnings will be updated each chapter until this story is finished or goes officially AU). Spoilers for Tokyo Ghoul up to RE Ch. 79.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tooru and Saiko go home.

_“I half closed my eyes and imagined this was the spot where everything I'd ever lost since my childhood had washed up, and I was now standing here in front of it, and if I waited long enough, a tiny figure would appear on the horizon across the field and gradually get larger until I'd see it was Tommy, and he'd wave, and maybe even call.”_  
― Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go

**+++**

The night sky is pale with the inevitability of the rising sun by the time Mr. Sasaki escorts them out to a car that’s meant to take the two of them back to the Chateau.

Saiko’s feet scuffed loudly against the sidewalk as she shuffled out with them to the waiting car. Her fingers were wound tight in the hem of Tooru’s shirt and she was already practically asleep on her feet, stumbling a bit every few steps, her head nodding heavily. Still, when they reached the car and Tooru opened the door to guide her inside, she still turned back with red-rimmed eyes and whimpered a sleepy, plaintive ‘Maman’.

For his part, Tooru was almost relieved when Mr. Sasaki doesn’t respond to her, instead having turned to greet the driver who had hobbled over to him to take their destination information. He bowed to the man, his posture stiff, and offered the information with the same strained false cheer and bland politeness he’d been using for the past few hours of interviews and debriefs.

It still made him feel nauseous to see it, to hear it, and so he hurried into the car behind Saiko, pulling the door shut and leaving Mr. Sasaki to deal with the details.

“Mucchan?” Saiko murmured as she tucked her feet up on the seat beside her before scooting closer so that she could curl against his side.

“Hm?”

“Does your head still hurt?”

“It’s better than it was,” he replied, forcing a smile he doesn't feel as she nodded and tucked her splotchy face against his shoulder. “I’m just… tired.”

“Me too,” she whispered, her reply muffled against his shoulder. “Is Urie-bou coming? Are we waiting for him?”

“I don’t think so,” Tooru sighed, shifting to get comfortable against the seat. “I haven’t seen him since the second set of interviews. He might have already been sent back.”

“He was really mad at Maman, wasn’t he?”

Tooru sighed, turning his gaze up to the ceiling, glad the driver was still occupied outside with Mr. Sasaki. “No, I don’t think so. I might be wrong, but… sometimes I think it’s easier to be angry than sad.”

“That makes sense, I guess. Especially for Urie-bou,” Saiko turned her head to the side, giving a jaw-cracking yawn as she rubbed the back of one fist against over her eyes.

Silence hung awkwardly in the air between them for what seemed like a long time, but was probably only seconds, before Saiko murmured, “When Shiragin… Urie-bou was really….”

She trailed off, but then she didn’t really need to finish for Tooru to understand what she meant. It wasn’t like he was going to forget the sound of Urie’s voice, wild and hoarse and screaming at Shirazu long after Shirazu had….

He let a hand settle against Saiko’s wild hair, left loose to dry. She probably hadn’t had a brush to use as they’d each only had the change of clothes they’d been provided, which was probably why it was extra puffy.

“Yeah.” he commented finally, mostly to fill the silence up with something besides the memory of Urie’s pain. “I know.”

Silence fell again, awkward and strange between them in a way it had never been before. Tooru didn’t know what to say, how to fill it up. He’d never been good at small talk under even ideal circumstances. He didn’t know how to say anything that would make anything better either, make anything hurt less.

“Did Maman say when he’d come home?” Saiko asked suddenly, jolting up and leaning over to peer out at Mr. Sasaki through the darkly tinted window of the fancy car.

He could hear the low murmur of Mr. Sasaki’s voice and the driver’s response even if he can’t quite make out what they’re saying. Saiko could probably hear every syllable. “Soon,” he lied, hoping he sounded at least a little convincing. He didn’t really want to explain to Saiko that Mr. Sasaki had to wait for Shi- for the body to arrive so he could identify him and sign off on all the paperwork.

That was another conversation he could do without.

**+++**

_Shirazu grinned, poking his chopsticks at Tooru before tilting the last of the soup into his mouth and hopping down from the counter to put the cup in the trash. “All I’m saying is that it’s pretty freaking cool. I mean, it isn’t like there was anyone else to do it really, since it’s not like Haru couldn’t handle all that stuff being like she is now and my Mom… I mean, who knows where she is, right? Still though, I mean, it’s not like he_ had _to volunteer to be my guardian. They could have given us like caseworkers or something instead, right? I think that’s what they do with regular investigators and academy kids who don’t have any family left. So, yeah, I mean, it’s cool that he did. He’s yours too, right?”_

_“Y-yeah,” Tooru replied stumbling over the word, unsure where Shirazu was going with all this or why he’d brought it up in the first place._

_“So, I was thinking that makes it like we’re brothers now or something.” Shirazu’s cheeks had been flushed red and his grin had been so wide and pleased that Tooru hadn’t had the heart to tell him that Mr. Sasaki was responsible for all of them that way, even Saiko. Whether he had volunteered or not had never really even occurred to Tooru before that moment and he didn’t know whether it meant anything at all._

_“Y-yeah,” he’d replied finally when he realized Shirazu was waiting on him for a response. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly, unsure what else to say. His family had been… had been… and the Quinx were… “It’s really nice of him,” he finished lamely, offering a smile that he hoped didn’t look half as strained as it felt._

_Shirazu nodded eagerly, pulling another cup noodles from the cabinet and splashing some water in before tucking it into the microwave to heat. “So, what I’m saying is we should hang out more when we’re not out on missions and stuff. We could do something today. Like go out to karaoke or, um, I don’t know, what do brothers do?”_

_“You’re asking me?” Tooru murmured, twisting his fingers together nervously. He didn’t even know what friends did together, really, much less siblings. Whether there was even a difference. He’d never spent much time with anyone else voluntarily even… even_ before _._

_“Yeah, I mean-“ He cut himself off as the front door opened and shut with a decisive click. A few moments later, the microwave beeped and Urie slipped in, headphones on, dressed in his workout gear. His hair was damp with sweat, swiped back impatiently back from his face as was his habit. There was dirt smudged across his knees and face and Tooru could feel the chill lingering on his skin as he brushed past him._

_He didn’t look at either of them as he pulled a water bottle from the fridge before disappearing down the hall without a word._

_Tooru watched him go in silence, bottom lip pinned between his teeth. He wanted to say something, call him back maybe, but he couldn’t seem to find the words._

_Shirazu, on the other hand, glared after him, mouth screwed up into a scowl, “You don’t think Sassan is responsible for him too, do you? That would_ suck _. I mean, who would want that freaking bastard for a brother, huh?”_

**+++**

“He had a few more things to do, but I’m sure he’ll follow us when he’s done.” Tooru continued, clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably as she shook away that strange floating fragment of memory. Another reluctant glance towards the pair outside had him wondering again what they could possibly be talking about for so long. Had it been minutes since they’d gotten in the car? Hours? He wasn’t sure. His head hurt. Not knowing made him feel kind of nervous.

“You should try to sleep,” he offered finally, turning his attention back to Saiko. “It’ll be a long drive home and it’s been a really bad day.”

Saiko nodded, settling back against Tooru’s shoulder again with another yawn, “Okay, thanks, Mucchan.”

“Of course,” he replied, feeling a little guilty. He watched silently as the driver and Mr. Sasaki said their farewells and the driver turned to make his slow, ponderous journey around the car to take his place in the driver’s seat.

Mr. Sasaki lingered near the car, watching him go, his smile fading and cracking around the edges like burning paper, a façade of happiness drifting away on an indifferent wind.

Tooru stared at him through the dark windows and wondered, as that long and terrible night continued to bleed into dismal morning, where the Mr. Sasaki they had known had gone.

If he would ever be able to come back to them.

If he had ever even existed at all.

The door dinged quietly when the driver opened it and slipped inside. He smelled vaguely of some sort of thick pricey cologne that was probably meant to cover the scent of cheap cigarettes that clung to him.

Maybe it worked on normal people, but he doubted it.

It certainly didn’t work with them.

Saiko snuffled again, burying her face tighter against Tooru’s shoulder, reminding him that if he could smell it then it was probably a lot worse for her, her senses have always been far keener than his own. The old man hadn’t noticed their discomfort at all, too caught up in his own concerns as he cleared his throat and shifted about to get comfortable before adjusting the seat and mirrors to suit him.

Tooru’s nose has never been as sensitive as Saiko’s, but even he can tell they weren’t the first people to have been ferried home in that car since the raid had begun the previous night. The fading scent of soap and sweat and the far more obvious reek of drying blood hung thick in the recycled air, making his stomach flip and squirm. There were shiny patches and smears on the dark leather of the seats, more obvious now in the shifting light as the sun broke over the horizon and spilled yellow light through the buildings of downtown into the car. His fingers itched to touch those spots, just to see if his fingers would come away wet. There were pale glistening lumps ground into the carpet and the idea that they’re globs of flesh or fat tracked in by unsuspecting boots lodged in his brain. He squirmed in his seat a little, uncomfortable, and forced himself to look away.

He’d been… more sensitive to that kind of stuff since the auction and it was… harder to ignore when he was injured or exhausted.

He licked his lips nervously, swallowing hard and squeezing his eyes shut. The thought of it should have made him want to gag, should have made him feel sick.

It _didn’t_.

He really was losing it.

He dug the fingers of his free hand into his knee until the pain was enough to distract him from those sorts of weird wandering thoughts.

It wasn’t as if he’d ever… would ever… it was just…

His head had been full to bursting with strange and terrible thoughts all night and it ached behind his eyes and it was hard to focus on any one thing for very long, to keep track of time or thoughts or feelings or… anything, really.

Shirazu, Mr. Sasaki…

It was all too much.

He let his head drop back against seat and almost immediately regretted it as the world wobbled around him. He opened his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through his mouth. His aching head felt better with both eyes open, hidden as they were behind stolen sunglasses.

He could still feel the press of Urie’s bare, shower-warm hands against his face, lingering against his cheeks long after he had pushed the over-large glasses into place.

Urie…

**+++**

_“Sasaki’s right,” he’d murmured, gaze distant, mouth twisted in disgust. They were standing inches apart, Urie’s fingers still framing his face, and yet it felt like they were miles and miles away from each other. “Weak. We’re all… weak.”_

**+++**

Tooru still sometimes dreamt about the auction.

Or about parts of that night at any rate.

He’d wake up in the middle of the night, panting, sheets soaked with sweat and reeking of fear, thoughts of the raid chasing each other madly about in his head. He’d only ever remember scraps of what he dreamt, but always enough to _know_. Know that there were things about that night that had seemed to lodge inside his soul and refused to leave him be.

All those eyes on him, seeing him, judging him. How difficult it had been to breathe even before his eyepatch had been stripped away.

How naked, how exposed, he'd felt without it.

Choking on indecision. 

That man's touch on his shoulder. His voice, muffled ever so slightly by the mask and pitched low so only he could hear: "The operation failed. Help won't come."

Sometimes he dreamt about that moment when he’d thought Urie would be eaten. Dreamt that he was frozen in place, locked within the fragile prison of his own injured body as he watched, horrified, as Urie’s still form disappeared into the ghastly mouth of that ghoul. And in those dreams, he would watch, helpless, useless, unable to do anything but curse his own weakness as Urie was consumed utterly.

And then Big Madam would lick her generous lips until they glistened, sloppy and wet, and come for him.

More often he dreamt about how it had felt as his kagune had finally emerged. That weird feeling of satisfaction, as if he’d had a thorn lodged within his skin, a prickly inescapable pain, and it had finally been torn loose or given way. It had been such a _relief_. It had been as if he were emerging fully formed from the tattered husk of the person he used to be and becoming himself in some strange, indefinable way.

It had felt… amazing and strange and terrible all at once.

And as he’d knelt there on the floor of that bloodstained room, with his kagune fully formed and curved protectively around them, all he’d been able to think of had been _Urie_.

Urie who had always tried to keep them at arm’s length, to live and work with them without ever truly being one of them, Urie who was somehow both incredibly strong and terribly fragile in the most unexpected ways. He’d wanted, _needed_ , to protect him, but he hadn’t known how to do that when the greatest threat to Urie seemed to be Urie himself.

And so he’d offered what words he could, shaky and uncertain and probably not what Urie wanted or needed to hear, but they were all he’d had to give, exhausted as he was by injury and the emergence of his kagune, his whole body aching and cramping and ill. And something must have helped, because Urie had quieted, had murmured his name as they huddled together, not quite touching.

And maybe that’s why he kept dreaming of those moments over and over again, because somehow kneeling there with Urie had felt… intimate in a way nothing else ever really had. Like they’d been sharing secrets, however unwillingly, and those moments had… changed things between them in some still undefined way.

He still found himself periodically remembering and dwelling on the oddest things.

The way Urie’s voice had sounded as he lost control completely, his composure shattering like porcelain across those cold, dirty floors.

How Urie had said his name… so different than anyone else ever had. Like it _meant_ something, like _he_ meant something, even if he wasn’t quite certain what.

All the odd moments since when maybe things hadn’t been obviously different between them, but they hadn’t been the same either.

Once or twice those dreams of the underground, of Urie, had gotten really… weird and everything had gotten all mixed up and turned around as reason and the thread of reality got lost in a strange, messy blur of emotion and contact that had never really happened. Those dreams were always all color and obscene noises and gloved hands pressed against the small of his back, sliding around his kagune, tracing the scar on his chest, touching the edges of his binder. He’d always wake up from _those_ dreams curled around his pillow, sobbing, stomach aching, shivering and restless and _confused_.

He’d be so ashamed afterwards that he’d be unable to look Urie in the face properly for _days_.

Most often he dreamt about that hall he’d run across when he’d been injured and frightened, fleeing one ghoul and then another, wandering lost and alone through the dark. That dark, quiet place filled with the dead.

In those dreams he was always… different.

He always felt like a stranger, even to himself. A desperate, terrifying, needy stranger, sick and aching and it always felt like he was barely holding himself together… and that hall… the way it _smelled_ , the way it made him _feel_ , the way it _reeked_ of flesh and blood and death…

It had made him…

Made him feel…

_Hungry._

No, that wasn’t…

Not hungry.

Sick.

Just…

...Sick.

And sometimes even now, months later, he’d wake to find he’d chewed his lips bloody in his sleep and the taste would be thick and cloying and nauseatingly familiar on his tongue.

It was disgusting, _revolting_ , and he doesn’t like to think about it, any of it, but his head wasn’t really the nicest place in town after everything that had happened and he kept getting distracted and losing himself down those dark, vicious, _pointless_ corridors of memory.

At least there in the car there was no one to judge him for it. No one to sigh, irritated, as they had to repeat their question to him a second or third time. No Mr. Sasaki standing behind him, hand resting like a perching bird on his shoulder, to make polite excuses for his inattention.

His head _ached_ , a dull throbbing pain behind his eyes that had been there to varying degrees since he’d awoken to the aftermath of that battle. Intellectually, he knows it’s just the damage healing itself, that it’ll fade, but it’s still….

A mechanical whir startled him from his thoughts.

He glanced up and caught the driver looking at them in the rearview mirror as the black shaded privacy glass began to rise between them.

There was pity in that glance.

Pity and sympathy and sadness and he couldn’t quite decide how he felt about that before the glass slid into place between them and the whirring sound ground to a halt. He could hear the man shift the car into gear and then it was pulling away from the curb, leaving headquarters and Mr. Sasaki behind as it merged with the sparse early morning traffic.

What did that stranger see when he looked at them?

Did he know who they were? What they were?  
  
It wasn’t obvious, he supposed, even with Mr. Sasaki escorting them out, looking after them.

_Supervising them as if they were children or pets that couldn’t be trusted to fend for themselves._

Tooru sighed, pressing his free hand against his forehead and rubbing vigorously.

That thought hadn’t been fair or kind.

Even if Mr. Sasaki wasn’t… he’d never treated them with anything but respect. They were all injured and exhausted and it wasn’t fair to assume Mr. Sasaki’s presence and concern had been anything but genuine.

**+++**

_“You’re going to need to learn to fend for yourself,” Mr. Sasaki murmured, his voice like a chill wind blowing over his spine as they stepped out of the interview room into the empty hall. “I won’t always be here to fight your battles for you, Mutsuki.”_

_He’d found himself staring after him, unwanted tears stinging his eyes, as Mr. Sasaki disappeared back into the interview room where they were already questioning Saiko, the door clinking shut softly behind him._

_He fell back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the ground, pulling his knees up against his chest._

_Did they all think of him like that?_

_Did everyone in the squad think he was still that weak?_

_Had Shirazu?_

**+++**

He could imagine that they must look even younger than they actually were dressed in the plain, loose fitting black clothes that had been provided for them to change into.

They’d probably just looked like two kids, far too young for this sort of work, exhausted and traumatized by whatever they’d seen and experienced.

Not too far from the truth, really.

He wasn’t surprised when Saiko began to snore softly, her grip on the hem of his shirt growing slack, fingers falling to lie against the seat even as gravity guided her head in a slow uneven descent down his arm. Sighing, Tooru shifted her carefully so that her head was pillowed against his thigh. She mumbled something about cookies and shifted, snuggling in and getting comfortable.

Tooru sighed and turned his gaze back to the window to watch the waking city pass them by as the car sped through the near deserted streets and up onto the highway. They’d probably be home in half an hour if they didn’t run into traffic.

Home.

Would it still be that?

It would be empty when they got there.

No Urie.

No Mr. Sasaki.

No Shirazu.

The dishes from their early supper would still be piled unwashed in the sink. Shirazu’s mug would still be waiting for them on the table, half full of stale coffee, because he never, ever remembered to rinse it or put it in the sink.

_God._

His eyes burned with unshed tears and he closed them tightly, ignoring the damp that leaked out and dribbled lazily down over his cheekbones and the dizziness that made his head feel light and uncertain.

Someone would want to come and clean out his room. Box all his things away, store them as… evidence or keep them in trust for his sister or… he didn’t even _know_.

They’d talked once or twice about their testaments, but never in too much detail. Shirazu had always laughed and said it was too depressing and it had been, but now he wished….

He wished they’d done it anyway.

He wished a lot of things.

Mostly that he himself had been stronger.

Always that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've only seen pieces and parts of the anime so my experience with Tokyo Ghoul is almost entirely based around the two manga series. Also, this is my first time writing for Tokyo Ghoul so, you know, feel free to tell me if I'm completely fucking it up. Kudos and comments are always appreciated, but never required.
> 
> Occurs primarily during the weeks directly following Shirazu's death (though it does jump around a bit here and there, obviously). Written mostly in response to Chapter 64. Some people share their feelings, I word vomit my feelings all over Ao3. Plus, I needed to write something to shake the will to work loose on the other stories I'm working on so I figured it might as well be this.
> 
> Urie-bou: Saiko nicknames everyone, but I don't believe I've every seen her drop a nickname for Urie in the main story so I'm going with Urie-bou as her name for him. If I missed an official nickname, feel free to let me know.
> 
> Mutsuki's Head Injury: Mutsuki is knocked out during the fight at Lunatic Eclipse and ends up coming to after Shirazu is fatally injured. My assumption is that he's concussed based on how slow he is to pick up on the fact that something is wrong with his fellow Quinx in general and Shirazu in particular.
> 
> Also, obviously, I've made a lot of assumptions in general, because you simply can not read much less write for TG and not make assumptions as a lot of events and motivations are often left ambiguous and even some of those events that aren't particularly ambiguous often fall under the purview of the 'untrustworthy narrator'. Which is really just a long drawn out way of saying: feel free to let me know if you have a different read on any particular situation or if you're curious as to why I made this or that choice in interpretation.
> 
> Updates for this story will be reasonably frequent (hopefully) since it's intended to be short and most of it is already written. Thanks for taking the time to read. Cheers!


	2. Beneath the Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaneki finds being Haise more challenging than he anticipated and being himself again even more so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I mentioned last time, but the point of view will be changing from chapter to chapter and the timeline will also jump around a little as a result. As you might have guessed, this is a Kaneki chapter.

_“That boy hardly needed a mask when his naked face was already impenetrable.”_  
― Lionel Shriver, We Need to Talk About Kevin

**+++**

The room was too hot.

The sound of Ui’s pen squeaking across the white board at the front of the conference room a source of constant irritation.

His skin felt too tight, stretched thin.

There was a broken fan in the vent overhead that sputtered to life and then stopped again every few minutes.

His arm itched where it is healing, slowly but surely, beneath the layers of gauze applied at the scene.

The third class inspector in the fourth seat to his left kept cracking his knuckles.

_Crack._

_Crack._

_Pop._

Speeding up as he moved from one joint to the next until it seemed a constant crackling sound not unlike the sound the cereal Shirazu liked to eat in the afternoon when he splashed milk on it.

The sound made fingers itch and twitch until he was forced to press his hand into the tight pocket of his slacks to keep it still, keep it from trembling with the urge to…

What?

He wasn’t certain and that made him edgy, nervous.

His mouth was dry. The swill they offered at headquarters was an insult to the name coffee and he’d forgotten to grab a bottle of water before coming to this meeting.

His stomach grumbled and ached.

He was hungry, still, probably would be constantly until the hand regrew and he healed completely.

_Hungry._

Shirazu would never learn to cook.

He had… no… _Haise_ had tried to teach him to cook once. Something simple…

Fried rice, maybe?

No.

Omelet?

Maybe.

He can’t quite seem to remember what it had been, but he can remember the smell of whatever it was burning. He can remember Shirazu’s panicked shrieks and his arms flapping a towel about, waving frantically at the smoke and the charring food as the fire alarm went off overhead, piercingly loud.

Mutsuki had ducked out of the room to fetch the fire extinguisher, lips pinched to keep his laughter at bay.

Yonebayashi hadn’t even bothered to make an attempt to contain her mirth, laughing hysterically from the safety of the couch while Shirazu cursed and asked her if she thought she could do better before breaking off with another shriek as specks of sizzling oil spit from the pan hit his arm.

Haise had been trying not to laugh, a hand held over his lips to hide his smile as the chaos continued.

He’d heard Urie mutter something about idiots burning the house down around them and glanced up to find him standing there leaning against the wall near the back hall. Their eyes had met for a moment and Urie had huffed out a sigh, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, jaw tight as if daring him to say something about him being there.

He hadn’t.

He had always felt strangely grateful when Urie deigned to come out of his room for more than sustenance, training and missions.

And that day he would have sworn that he saw the beginnings of a smirk turning up the corners of Urie’s pursed lips as Mutsuki ducked back in with the fire extinguisher and began reading the instructions aloud while Shirazu shouted for him to just ‘ _give me the damn thing already’_.

They’d all just stared when Shirazu accidentally wrenched the handle right off the thing rendering it perfectly useless.

_Useless._

He turned his gaze away from whatever diagram Ui was drawing to the bank of windows that made up the far wall.

Outside the head office, the city was alive and teeming with life, little people moving about their business, oblivious to the cares and worries of those that kept them safe from threats both real and imagined.

The world carried on.

The world had always carried on.

That hadn’t changed.

He hadn’t changed either. He was still too weak to protect anything, anyone. The things he values still slip through his fingers like sand.

The world cared nothing for the losses that meant so much to so few. What were the lives of a few investigators in the grand scheme of things?

_Nothing._

What were the lives of a few ghouls?

 _Less_ than _nothing_.

Hadn’t he learned that lesson long ago?

Why did it still surprise him?

He wasn’t even certain why he was dwelling this way on a loss that wasn't even truly his.

He was  _not_  Sasaki Haise, after all.

So he was not Shirazu’s Sassan or Yonebayashi’s Maman or Mutsuki’s Mr. Sasaki either.

He was... himself again or something like it.

And to them Kaneki Ken would eventually be just another ghoul and whatever remained of Haise would probably die that day.

And maybe he would to.

These were not his tears blurring his vision, not truly, and he would never allow them to fall.

Haise had never even existed at all, he wasn’t sure why these feelings lingered on within him just the same.

Haise’s life had been little more than a long, strange dream.

Just the charred remains of a house on fire, burned to ash and soot by grief and rage and the insanity that came with it wreathed with flowers and draped in cloth in the hope no one would notice the damage beneath.

Haise had been a dream of a summer day and Kaneki was the cold harsh winter of reality.

They were not the same.

And yet…

For all that, Sasaki Haise had left behind more to prove his existence than Kaneki Ken had now or would ever have again.

And, while it had lasted, Haise had had more happiness than he would probably ever know.

It truly had been… a nice dream... while it had lasted.

Sasaki Haise had been whole in ways Kaneki Ken never could be, ways he wasn’t sure he had ever had been, even before.

He envied him that.  
  
Perhaps he even hated him.

He was not Sasaki Haise.

And he _was_.

He was Kaneki Ken and he was Sasaki Haise, both and neither.

He was their memories and wants and needs at war.

Shirazu was dead.

And the one thing he could reconcile perfectly between the two was that it was unbearable even if he was less certain about the why.

He was all alone at a graveside lingering in the dark, unsure where to stand, whether to speak, unsure if he even had the right to mourn, to care.

Whether he even truly did or if anything he felt was real or simply Haise’s grief echoing like screams in an empty room. If these feelings would fade, his head already too full of nightmares to have room leftover for Haise’s.

The only thing he was truly certain of was _that_.

Only the hunger was a certainty, ever present, inescapable.

The hunger gnaws at him, chews through the heart of him with dull, rotting teeth. Gnashing and crushing everything he is and will be to pulp as he stands on the sidelines and watches it consume him dispassionately, unable even to summon the will to care.

Yet he also found it difficult to focus on anything else.

It had been a long time since his hunger controlled him.

Or maybe it hadn’t.

Kaneki Ken and Sasaki Haise were like overlapping transparencies in his mind scribbled all over with black and, where the light shines through, he can see the lines where they meet and break apart and come together once more.

Control had always been an issue, for both of them.

He hates that he can still taste her in the back of his throat.

And he loves it.

Would have devoured every last morsel of herself she'd left behind if he'd had the time.

Wished he'd been able to put an end to her then and there.

If he had managed to kill her, these meetings might have been shorter or there might have been less of them.

That would be reason enough to hate her.

Not that he truly had need of yet another reason to add to the pile.

He had plenty enough as it was.

He’d been stuck in meetings throughout the day.

Meetings?

A far more accurate and honest description would be to say that they were redundant, pointless, headache inducing exercises in patience.

Patience.

A commodity he found himself lacking in more and more frequently as the day wore on and what little he has left to spare he had already decided to invest in not just _eating that man_.

Not that he actually would have, of course, but….

That man and his suspicious looks and his endless insistence that he attend just one more interview. Just one more meeting. And certainly he could take Second Class Urie home if he would just be patient a bit longer because they had just a few more questions for him.

And he had a sneaking suspicion that they were all being punished though he wasn't certain precisely why.

It had just been such a very, long day.

And pretending to be Haise was... difficult.

Being in that building surrounded by investigators was taxing his already frayed nerves to the breaking point.

It had been a long day and a longer night and too often he still felt like an observer. As if he were just barely himself.

His arm ached.

His chest ached.

He could hear a soft clicking sound coming from what seemed like a long way off and it made him uneasy, made his skin crawl and his fingers twitch.

He couldn’t afford to lose control.

There was simply too much left to do.

He had... to think. He just needed _time_.

Time to think, time to remember what he....

Shirazu’s hair had been so bright cradled against the dark of his shirt.

There was something particularly cruel about holding someone that meant so much to you and being so revoltingly, painfully aware that they smelled _delicious_.

What a terrible joke.

Would it have been the same for Haise?

Strange that he couldn’t quite seem to remember how the dead had smelled to Haise.

Had it been the same or had conditioning made it different?

It hardly mattered now, but the thought refused to leave him alone.

The strangely loud sound of Ui clearing his throat pointedly crashed through his thoughts and Haise realized that the meeting had ended and that everyone around him were already gathering their belongings and exiting the room.

He stood slowly, unsurprised when Ui came to lean against the table beside him tapping a fresh pack of cigarettes against the back of his hand. “Was I boring you, First Class?”

He knows that he needs to answer, to play the role, but the truth is already tripping off his tongue before he can snatch it back. “Yes. None of the material was new or surprising,” he murmured, pushing his chair back and standing. “I’m not sure why I was required to attend.”

Ui snorted, a soft unexpected sound, “I think that might have been the first time I’ve ever agreed with you.”

“There is a first time for everything under the sun,” he replied, forcing a wan smile. “Did Associate Special Class Washuu have any further vitally important tasks for us to complete before we’re allowed to return to our homes?”

“I think I like you better like this,” Ui murmured, ripping the plastic off the pack and peeling back the foil before tapping a cigarette out. He held it between his fingers, tucking the remains of the pack back into his pocket. “That’s not to say that I actually like or trust you, of course, I just appreciate the honesty on a day like today. When an operation fails on such a massive scale everyone runs about like ants fearing a boot, intent on covering their asses, so honesty is always in short supply in times such as these." He slid the cigarette between his lips, gaze on the window and the bright blue sky beyond. "As to your question, Special Class Washuu is no different from the rest though he's far better at it. I believe he'd be far more comfortable if he were allowed to chain you to a desk somewhere and only let you off the leash when it suited his purposes.”

“And you, sir?”

Ui smiled as he slipped a lighter from his pocket, “What would be the point? When you’re the one in charge, there’s nowhere to hide when things go poorly nor should there be. And as to chaining you up, I doubt Arima would approve. He's quite ridiculously fond of you." His smile faded and he slanted a sideways glance at him, manner deceptively casual. "Did you know the car carrying Tsukiyama Miromo disappeared?”

He hadn’t.

He’s glad.

He hadn't dared ask anyone whether Tsukiyama Shu’s body had been recovered even though he could have covered the inquiry as a desire to be thorough. To know if he’d been among the dead or if he’d managed to survive as he’d hoped he would. His feelings about Tsukiyama had always been complicated, but….

He had always been a difficult man to hate.

All the more so because he'd tried to let him be. To leave him to what happiness he'd found as Sasaki Haise.

He would probably never see him again and that was just as well, but he hoped he was alive and safe somewhere.

“In the end all we have to show for our efforts with are a dozen dead investigators and a few dead ghouls. And even that….” Ui trailed off, lighting his cigarette and inhaling deeply, blowing the smoke out into the air before him.

“Are you supposed to be smoking in here, Associate Special Class?”

“I certainly hope not,” Ui replied pulling a strangely folded piece of paper from his pocket and popping it open before tapping ash into it. “I received word just before the meeting that the transport van that was carrying the bodies of the dead has gone missing."

His heart doesn't stop, but it feels like it stutters for a moment, tripping over the thought that he couldn't protect him even in death.

"They believe it was Aogiri.”

Because _of course_ it was.

Who else?

Why was it suddenly so difficult to _breathe_?

Not the smell of smoke certainly, he’d never minded that even if he’d never been interested in picking up the habit himself.

“Several other transport vans were attacked as well though nothing much was taken from those. A few support personnel were killed,” Ui continued oblivious to his companion’s distress, tapping ash into that makeshift paper ashtray. “There’s some debate as to whether those additional attacks were because they were looking for the dead or if they were merely meant to throw us off the scent of whoever leaked them the information.”

_Ah._

His blood ran cold.

He had put Urie and Mutsuki into the back of one of the equipment trucks rather than one of the standard personnel transport vehicles. It had been a spur of the moment decision based on the severity of Mutsuki's head injury, how out of sorts he'd seemed when Urie had brought him to the medical personnel to be checked over.

Had Aogiri been looking for them?

Had it been only luck that they hadn’t found them?

A live specimen would certainly have done more for Kanou’s research than a dead one after all.

Numbers rattle through his head like scattered bones, begging to be given voice and the clicking, rustling sound seems nearer than it had been before. His knuckles ache.

“They’ve sent out a few teams that weren’t involved in the operation to look for the missing vehicle.”

“They won’t find it,” he murmured, distracted, because _of course_ they wouldn’t. All an investigation would turn up would be the things that hadn’t been of use to them.

Shirazu was gone.

They wouldn’t even have a body to bury.

He was just... _gone_.

Nothing left but a fading memory of a sharp-toothed grin and the sound of laughter.

As if he’d never existed at all.

“No, I don’t think so either,” Ui replied, taking another drag from his cigarette as they stood together in silence, mourning their own losses.

The silence stretched long between them as he struggled for control and Ui smoked one cigarette and then a second.

“Go home, First Class,” Ui commented finally, as he stubbed out his second cigarette against the thick paper before popping it closed and carrying the makeshift ashtray to the trashcan to dispose of it. “If you stick around I’m sure he’ll find some other reason to keep you here. Call in in the morning and someone will give you an update on the search.”

“Thank you, Ui,” he replied, feeling absurdly grateful.

“Don’t _thank_ me, Sasaki,” his voice was so quiet that it was difficult to be sure he was speaking to him at all. “Even if you are one of them, I-“

He cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head.

He stared with wide eyes at the stiff line of his shoulders, remembering the shock and faint disgust on Ui's face when he'd seen him there, covered in her blood.

When he’d ordered him to wipe the blood away.

As if that would make him any less what he had always been.

“Never mind,” Ui finished, shaking himself and going to gather his own things, never looking back at him. “Just pick up Urie and go home already.”

So he left.

There was nothing else to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should probably mention that the use of Kaneki rather than Ken in his internal monologue is done on purpose. Just, FYI.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated though never required. ^_^


	3. Reaching Out in Vain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuki, Interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to handle Urie's nonverbal commentary as quoted italics, also it's usually called out in the text as being something he's thinking rather than saying aloud, but that wasn't always possible. Just thought I should mention it before we get into it. Also, this is much longer than the average chapter has been or will be.

_“Why shouldn't I hate her? She did the worst thing to me that anyone can do to anyone else. Let them believe that they're loved and wanted and then show them that it's all a sham.”_  
― Agatha Christie, The Mirror Crack'd from Side to Side

**+++**

Kuki dropped his head back against the top of the wooden chair in which he sat, allowing to loll to the side to gaze out the window. The sun was low on the horizon streaking the sky with muted orange and yellow, the warmth and brightness of it burning his tired eyes even through the heavily tinted glass.

They were talking amongst themselves again, whispering as if he couldn’t hear them clear as day if he tried. Or maybe they did it _because_ they knew he could probably hear each snide remark, each disparaging comment they made.

That was probably closer to the truth.

He’d noticed the way Associate Special Class Washuu’s gaze occasionally shifted in his direction, eyes narrowed ever so slightly behind his glasses.

 _“Still suspicious of me, huh?”_   He doesn't ask, after all, he’d have been more surprised if he had trusted that his apology had been sincere, to be honest.

The road back into his good graces would be a long one littered with plenty of groveling, he was quite sure. For the moment, he tried to keep his posture loose, relaxed, his thoughts and feelings hidden and locked away.

It was… challenging.

It wasn’t usually, but since the night before… everything had been different. His thoughts felt thick, muddled and slow like honey dripping into a teacup, blood oozing from a healing wound. For the moment he felt, calm. He was… hollow; an empty space, a poor excuse, but it wouldn’t last.

Nothing did.

He was at the eye of the storm and he could feel his emotions battering at the shutters, howling protest.

He was weak.

He didn’t deserve to be here when Shirazu was gone.

Everything that had happened was his fault.

He'd been the one fighting at his side, after all.

He glanced back as the door opened, surprised to find the Associate Special Class leaving the room, a portfolio tucked beneath his arm.

Was it finally over?

 _"Can I leave?"_ He doesn't ask because obviously it wasn't and he couldn't. No one had told him he could go. No one was even paying him much attention at all, too busy making small talk for the moment.

His ass ached and he shifted again, flexing and stretching muscles gone stiff and numb from sitting too long on the unforgiving surface of the wooden chair they’d given him. How long had he been in this room? How long in the room before? Why did they even _have_ those damn chairs? Did they just keep them around just to make the people they questioned uncomfortable?

How long had it been since the interviews started?

It was… difficult to tell. They kept rotating people in and out, asking the same painful, condescending questions over and over again until everything had begun to blur together with only the shifting sun to confirm the passage of time.

It had been dark when they’d started, darker still when Associate Special Class Washuu had come and personally retrieved him from where he’d stood in the hall outside the rooms where Yonebayashi and Mutsuki were still being questioned.

Since then he’d only been allowed out of the room for bathroom breaks and when they’d spontaneously decided to switch to a conference room on a higher floor for no obvious reason.

His stomach rumbled, tightening and cramping, and he closed his eyes against the sudden pain. When had he last eaten? Before the mission, certainly, but sometimes… sometimes he simply forgot or couldn’t be bothered.

Had he had dinner?

Lunch?

If he thought about it he could almost see Mutsuki frowning at him, hear him whispering that he should eat a little more. He remembered being… annoyed.

Why couldn’t he just mind his own business?

Why did he _care_?

He’d been like that since… since _that_ day, always in his business and in his face all the time. Or maybe he’d always been like that and he just hadn’t noticed before. He wasn’t sure. It probably didn’t matter.

Before Mutsuki had just been an obstacle in his path, a tool at his disposal, occasionally a pebble in his shoe, but now he…

Now he…

Now they….

Mutsuki was….

_“Urie, I’m… I don’t… I’m sorry, you smell really… sorry, I… I don’t know what I’m saying, sorry… sorry.”_

His voice had been a rush of broken, stumbling breath against his collarbone and he’d wanted to pull him closer, push him away.  
  
He’d been glad when they’d arrived at headquarters and he hadn’t had to make a choice at all.

It had been uncomfortably warm and they’d been slumped together, crowded too close in the narrow space they’d been given to sit in. They’d been jostled into each other constantly as the driver hit every dip and hole in the road between Lunatic Eclipse and Headquarters.

He’d spent most of the ride silently cursing Sasaki, who had been the one to pack them into back of the equipment truck in the first place. Mutsuki hadn’t seemed to care at all about how they were practically sitting on top of each other or how precariously balanced boxes kept pitching into them when the truck took a sharp turn too fast or made a sudden stop. But then Mutsuki hadn’t seemed to care much about anything since they’d left that building. He’d been quiet, dazed, and more than once he’d found himself reaching out to steady him despite himself.

He hadn’t liked it.

Seeing Mutsuki like that.

Mutsuki who usually always seemed to care too much about everything.

But he also hadn’t hated the warmth of Mutsuki pressed against his side. He was cold, his clothes still soaked through with blood and gore, but Mutsuki hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d never pulled away from him in horror, had stayed with him, lingered close by even as they’d stood on the pavement outside the building watching the van that had carried their dead drive away.

The blood smeared across his forehead had long since dried so that he could feel it cracking and flaking away whenever he grimaced or frowned.

And each time it made his stomach twist and his eyes burn.

He wasn’t sure why.

**+++**

“Urie?” Mutsuki had murmured, his voice soft, only barely audible over the rumble of the engine, his expression hidden in shadow.

He turned to look at him and was surprised that their faces were so close, so close that Mutsuki’s breath brushed warm across his cheek, smelling vaguely of copper and peppermint.

“Do you think he was scared?”

He’s not sure why he’s asking, if he even meant to, but he does and the question is just a whisper, one he could easily ignore, but he doesn’t.

 _"Sometimes,"_ he wanted to say, because that seemed like the sort of thing you’re supposed to say in situations like theirs. Might even be what Mutsuki wanted to hear. It was the sort of answer that sounded honest even though it was utter bullshit, the kind of answer Shirazu might have given, maybe, that might have been… comforting or something.

But he wasn’t Shirazu.

Shirazu had….

He couldn’t be like that kind of person.

Taking everything to heart, making the effort to know them, to care about them, the kind of person who looked out for them. The kind of person they could always depend on to do right by them, to have their best interests at heart, even when he made mistakes.

He’s never even _wanted_ to be that sort of person. He’s only ever cared about himself, about his own ambitions and now…

He doesn’t know how to be anything else.

How to stop being the person he was… the person Associate Special Class Washuu had expected him to be, the person that Shirazu’s death had left dashed across the floors of Lunatic Eclipse. He wasn’t sure what to do with all the fractured pieces or how to shape them into anything that could help anyone else, even himself.

He wasn't even sure if he wanted to.

He’d never been able to be strong for anyone but himself.

And even then… he had still been too weak.

He still wasn’t enough.

Shirazu had been scared, at the end. He'd heard it in his voice when he couldn't hear them anymore, when he'd thought he was alone, but he wasn't sure if that was what Mutsuki was asking. And even if it was...

Maybe that was something Mutsuki never needed to know.

He died afraid and alone, but before that, when he'd been fighting....

“I don’t think he even knew what the word meant,” he replied instead and Mutsuki snorted a laugh, dropping his head against his shoulder to muffle the sound against his shirt. For some reason he can’t quite grasp, that sudden weight against his shoulder knocks the air from his lungs and he can only sit there, frozen, as Mutsuki giggled uncontrollably against him, clinging to his sleeve as if for balance.

 _“You sound like you’re drunk_ ,” he doesn’t tell him.

 _“How hard did you hit your head?”_ He doesn’t ask.

The darkness is lit occasionally by streetlamps that cast brief impressions of dirty, faded yellow beyond the dark-tinted windows. Splashes of almost light that just make the darkened spaces between seem that much deeper. Eventually Mutsuki’s laughter faded away into a shuddering breath that blew warm against his throat, made him shiver.

“I wish I were more like him. I’m scared all the time.” Mutsuki confessed, seconds or minutes later, lips brushing carelessly against his ear, voice hushed but someone also comically loud as if every word were a secret shouted across a crowded room. “Sometimes it feels like I’ll never be anything else.”

He felt a questioning touch brush the barest hint of pressure against his gloved hand and he knew if he looked down he’d find Mutsuki’s hand resting tentatively against the back of his own.

It reminds him of the night of the auction, of that strange foreign feeling of acceptance, the way Mutsuki’s Kagune had curled around him and the soft rasp of Mutsuki’s voice had seemed to seep beneath his skin, patching the holes within him.

 _“You already are,”_ he answered, though he’s not quite sure if he said it aloud or just in his head. He'd not even sure which he hoped to be true.

It would have been a simple matter to catch Mutsuki’s fingers with his own, to lace them together, a simple comfort, freely given. It wouldn’t have meant anything and it would have meant everything and so he doesn’t.

Instead, he just huffed a sigh and turned his face away, squeezed his eyes shut as the truck continued to rumble toward its final destination.

Time passed, minutes or hours, and Mutsuki’s breath evened out, turning deep and slow as he slumped lower in his seat, head lolling against the door, falling asleep as easily as if the day hadn't been filled with horror. Yet, even in sleep, his fingers still lingered stubbornly against the back of his hand, a persistent weight.

He finally allowed himself a glance.

Mutsuki's skin almost seemed to glow, warm and golden in the dim light against the glistening black of his glove. He reached out to slide a trembling finger across the back of his hand, vaguely horrified at the faint tracery of blood his touch left behind.

The van hit another bump and Mutsuki’s hand finally fell away, limp in sleep.

He let it go.

+++

He was tired and his mind drifted in and out, unfocused, snagging and pulling at threads of the past as he continued to gaze across the sparse office space; as he continued to be ignored by the men still talking amongst themselves on the far side of it. The shadows in the room were cast into sharp relief by the vivid colors of the setting sun, they lay long and strange across the tile floors growing longer as moments passed to minutes. He didn’t enjoy watching their steady progress across the floors and walls, but there was nothing better to do as he waited for them to ask him the same questions all over again. To make him relieve those moments all over again, though maybe if they kept at it, he’d eventually stop feeling them quite so vividly.

For now he tried to visualize those long black shapes sprawled across a canvas trailing behind the sweep of a brush as they were slowly transformed from something ordinary into something monstrous. Black and grey carving hungry lines across pale canvas, consuming everything that lay before them, devouring all that empty space, just an insatiable beast that could no longer be contained. The splatter of red, bright and vivid against the pale as it…

He closed his eyes, swallowed back a sudden mouthful of saliva, pressing the back of one gloved hand against his mouth, wiping almost frantically at his lips in case he’d drooled, vaguely sickened by the possibility.

Disgusting.

Hungry.

He was _hungry_.

His stomach churned and he closed his eyes as he felt the familiar twitch at his temple of his Kakugan activating and deactivating.

Not here.

He wasn’t doing this _here_.

No, this was fine.

He was _fine_.

He could handle this. He was just… _anxious_ , eager to be done.

It felt it like an itch beneath his skin.

“Rank 1 Urie?” Someone asked, finally, and he forced his eyes open, uncertain how much time had passed. He forced himself to try to focus on the figures across the room, on the man speaking to him.

He was just a pale blob in a dark suit, his features smearing together, blotches of blackened canvas. It was irritating, but hardly worth the effort it took to try and clear his gaze. Just another useless, _worthless_ , nameless paper-pushing idiot who stood back and judged battles from the sideline. It should have been them, any one of them, but they’d have never been able to do what Shirazu had done.

They were _weak_.

Just like him.

“Rank 1 Urie?”

“Yes?” He answered, voice flat. His stomach grumbled and he dug gloved fingertips in against his knees.

 _“Please,”_ he doesn’t say. _“Please don’t ask me again.”_

**+++**

Mutsuki had stumbled over his own feet walking into the changing room, it wasn’t the first time he’d faltered that night and every time he did his stomach dropped and his breath caught, mind racing with questions he wouldn’t ask:

_“How bad are your injuries?”_

_“Shouldn’t they have healed by now?”_

_“Are you going to die?”_

_“Are you going to leave me too?”_

Mutsuki had always been the slowest at healing. Should he have made more of an issue about it with the support staff who’d examined him? What was he supposed to do if something happened? Call Sasaki? Take care of him himself? He’d never bothered to learn anything more than cursory first aid.

Again he lacked the skill to do what was necessary, what was needed.

Typical.

It had been almost a shock when he felt fabric brush and settle against his hand as he caught Mutsuki’s weight, traitorous arm curling around him, hand pressed against his stomach to steady him when he might have fallen forward. He hadn’t even realized he’d moved at all, how he'd crossed the distance between them so fast.

He felt Mutsuki jump, startle badly, backpedaling and slamming back against his chest with a yelp as if he’d forgotten for a moment where he was and who he was with and then it had been his turn to startle at the unexpected contact, to trip and skitter backwards, and they’d both gone down in a heap of panic and embarrassment each scrambling and just as eager to get away from the other.

They ended up facing each other on hands and knees, kneeling on the rough cement, both breathing too fast. He couldn’t figure out why his hands were shaking  but they were, trembling almost too badly to bear his weight. He wanted to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come. They stuck in his throat, strangling him as thoughts flooded through him.

Why should he be the one to apologize? He’d just been trying to help, hadn’t he? Had he? Had it just been an excuse to touch him? People sought comfort wherever they could get it in times of grief, didn’t they? Was that what he was…?

 _No_ , he wasn’t… weak like that, desperate like that. Was he?

He’d liked touching him in the van. Liked the weight of his hand against his own, the brush of his lips against his throat, his ear, the press of his side against his own.

He curled his fingers against the floor, painfully aware of the soft squelching sound as the congealed blood within squished between his bare skin and the lining, made fluid again by sweat or the sudden impact, he wasn’t sure.

_Filthy._

Mutsuki’s voice was soft, stammering across his thoughts, bringing his gaze up to stare at the top of his bowed head, the ivy green of his hair.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, Urie, I… I wasn’t expecting you to and then I…” Mutsuki blew out a sigh and dropped his forehead down against where his hands were pressed flat against the floor. “Thank you for trying to help. Sorry I freaked out.”

“I wasn’t…” he hesitated, uncertain how to finish, what needed to be said.

Help? _Had_ he been trying to help?

How stupid.

He couldn’t help anyone, couldn’t even help himself.

He wasn’t sure what he had been trying to accomplish.

_“I’m sorry.”_

He remembered scrambling at Shirazu’s wound, trying to get a better look, his fingers in the wound, watching the flesh try to knit back together, too slowly, far too slowly. Pulling and pushing intestines, blood-covered organs, ripped flesh… trying to… what? Get it to heal faster? Better? _At all?_ Or maybe he’d just wanted to hurt him, punish him for being _better_ than he was, for being able to do what he couldn’t…for…

_“I’m sorry.”_

…for dying, for leaving him.

Everyone always left.

In the end, he was always alone.

He was always an inconvenience, a nuisance, useless, _weak_.

He had touched Mutsuki in the same place, hadn’t he? The same place he’d touched Shirazu. As if he had any right. As if he could… as if he wanted... to make sure he was… whole and there and… foolish.

Ridiculous.

_“I’m sorry.”_

He was so….

It was all so stupid.

He didn’t want to touch anyone or be touched in return, he just wanted…

What _did_ he want?

Shirazu’s blood was still all over him, on his clothes, his skin, in his hair, squelching in his gloves where he pressed them against the floor.

_“I’m sorry.”_

His throat still ached, scratchy and abused. He’d been so… angry. He still was. Those moments after seemed as if they’d been scribbled over, red and black in his memory, and he was unable to see beyond them, unable to hear anything past his own rage, rioting in his head.

How _dare_ he?

How _dare_ he die on him?

How dare he make him _care_? Make him _care_ and then _die_.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, or at least he thought he did.

Why couldn’t he have just died right away if he was going to? Back in the beginning when he’d barely been able to remember their names, when he hadn’t cared if they died or lived just as long as he could use their bodies as a ladder to reach the top, to achieve what he wanted, what he needed. It wouldn’t… it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d just… so _why_ … why was he… why did he….?

Mutsuki’s hands were cool against his cheeks, grounding him, reminding him that he wasn’t there anymore.

Not kneeling in that long hallway, scrambling for the right words, words that would make a difference, would make him _stay_.

Not standing in the entryway of his father’s home listening to those men try to explain why his father would never be coming home. Why his father was brave, why he was a hero, why he should be _proud_ of his him and who was to blame for his death.

They were all gone and he was still there and so was Mutsuki. They were there, kneeling together on the cold concrete. His bruised knees ached and he wanted… he closed his eyes and turned his face into Mutsuki’s wrist.

He smelled good.

“I’m here,” Mutsuki’s voice was soft, soothing, like it had been that day, easing inside him, loosening the knots of tension in his chest, his stomach. “You’re not alone.”

Why _him_ …?

Why was he always….

It was his fault that he… it had been better before, before that day, before those words. Before he’d let Mutsuki _in_. He should be alone. It was better.

It was _better_ being alone.

Being alone didn’t hurt like this.

“I should go shower,” he murmured, feeling numb, wrung out.

He needed to go, to move, before he did something stupid, said something stupid.

His hands felt sweaty and filthy inside his gloves as he pushed himself back, pulled free of Mutsuki’s touch.

**+++**

“Rank 1 Urie Kuki! I realize you've had a rather long day, but if you wish to finish this interview anytime soon, I must insist that you answer my questions!”

 _"Must I?"_ He didn't snap back, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again, biting the inside of his cheek until he could taste copper, salty and sharp.

He had to get it together, but he'd never fix anything, least of all himself.

And it shouldn’t matter, but it _does_.

It _does_.

Why was he still so _weak_?

His fingers flexed and twitched and he can feel the beginnings of panic narrowing his vision, settling in his bones. Disgust, rage, those were easy to deal with. He’d had enough practice at swallowing back those emotions when it suited him, using them when he needed to. It was easy at the Chateau to hide it, to ignore them all and just remove himself to his room. To prop up a canvas and take comfort in the ritual of it: the smell of paint and turpentine, the scratch of the brush. To slip on a mask and turn up his music and paint the same scene again and again until he felt… calmer. Until he felt like himself again, who he was supposed to be.

He was fine.

He was strong.

He could do what he needed to do.

To just let everything narrow to a single point until the world slowed to a crawl around him and he could stand in the center, at the eye of the storm, and feel nothing at all but the desire to be great. The desire to be worthy, to be better than _him_ , than all of _them_ , to have everyone look up at him, see him, his father’s son.

To be the strongest, the best, to stand at the top of their world, untouchable, beyond them all where nothing and no one could ever….

Everything was fine.

He was _fine_.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered beyond that.

Beyond….

He’d be the best.

Better than anyone else.

And now… now it wasn’t.

But he could still do what needed to be done. For himself, for Shirazu, for all of them, just… just a little more, a little longer. If he could just keep it together for another hour, two, they’d let him go and he could leave and no one would see the cracks beneath the surface.

No one would ever know he was falling apart.

Promotion.

That was the only way forward, the only way to get to what he wanted, to be what he needed to be, to be _who_ he needed to be.

He could do this.

If he didn’t…

If he _didn’t_ …

Then what good was he?

What was he worth?

He didn’t need anything or anyone as long as he could be… this.

Right?

Everything was… he was…

Just a little more, just one more time, he could do this.

Just a little longer, a little further, a little more.

“Did you hear what I said, Rank 1 Urie?”

“Of course…” he answered after a moment’s hesitation, biting his tongue to prevent the rest of his response from slipping past his lips. “ _I heard you, you fucking moron. I’m not_ deaf. _Why do I have to keep answering the same questions over and over again? Are you getting off on this?”_

"My apologies. It has been... a long day," the words taste foul, like ashes. "Could you repeat the question?"

The man sighed, shuffled his papers, clearly frustrated, “Who landed the final blow on SS-Rated ghoul known as Noro?”

“…I did,” he breathed the response, his voice as flat and emotionless as he could make it. “Squad Leader Shirazu, at the cost of his own life, did enough damage to allow me to finish him.”

 _“What the hell does it matter who landed the final blow?”_ He hadn't snapped.  _“Isn’t it enough that it was too late? That we weren’t strong enough, that_ I _wasn’t strong enough. He made it possible so the credit should belong to him. I don’t care. I don’t_ care _. What do you expect me to say? What is it you want from me? The credit is his. It should be_ his _. He was always….”_

He remembered Shirazu’s sharp-toothed grin as he leaned over the back of the couch, looking not at him, but out the window. His gaze had been trained on the woods, the trees where Mutsuki was out throwing knives while Yonebayashi sat on a stump beside him playing that stupid video game machine she loved so much.

She probably thought that qualified as participating in training.

Not that he cared, it didn't affect him in the least. Let her slack off. She was Shirazu's problem, not his.

All he cared about was that Shirazu was still in his space, on purpose, begging for attention by proximity even in silence. He just kept leaning there, breathing air noisily through his mouth, loud enough even when he was just _existing_ that Kuki couldn't ignore him, not completely. Even when he had the headphones in and he could pretend not to hear or care, he could still see him and he wouldn't leave. He _never_ left anymore until he said his piece. It was ridiculous.

He _longed_ for the days when Shirazu used to avoid him like he had the plague or curse at him from a distance.

“…What?” He’d asked finally, voice flat as annoyance fizzled behind his eyes. _“Why are you always like this?”_ He doesn’t say. “ _Why do you always have to be so close? So loud? Why do you always have to try so hard? It’s_ irritating _. What are you trying to do? I don’t understand you. Just leave me alone. Why won’t all of you just leave me alone?”_

“So, I was just thinking…” He trailed off expectantly and Kuki felt a nerve twitch in his temple, irritation writing itself beneath his skin.

"Were you really," he managed, biting his lip before he finished the thought aloud. _“Funny, I can’t smell smoke. You must not have been thinking very hard.”_

“Well, I mean, we should probably train together or something sometime, right? I mean we have to work as a team, you know? We can’t keep going like this forever. We’ve gotta be better. You think so too, right?”

He hadn’t answered him, but then he hadn’t seemed to really expect an answer. He’d said what he’d wanted to say and then he’d just clapped him on the shoulder like they were... what? He didn’t know, didn’t _want_ to know, didn’t care what Shirazu thought about him, about them. He didn't care. Shirazu grin was wide as he practically jogged out the door and down the steps to join the others. Kuki realized he hadn't even had a chance to properly bristle at the unwanted contact before the door clicking shut behind him.

He’d remained on the couch and watched them for a while, watched them all smile together, his chest tight.

Yonebayashi had looked up from her game at one point and caught him watching, raising her hand to wave enthusiastically at him before she went back to frantically jabbing buttons.

He'd felt his cheeks grow warm as he gathered his music player and the book he'd been pretending to flip through and hurriedly retreated to his room.

But even at the end when they'd finally, _finally_... been able to work together like Shirazu wanted, when they’d been something like a team, it hadn't _mattered_. It hadn't been enough.

Had that been his fault too?

They kept reaching for him, trying to connect and he could never manage to keep up his end.

His fingers itched inside his gloves and it’s all he can do to keep from ripping them off, throwing them across the room.

Throwing the uncomfortable wooden chair he sat in after them.

All those complacent bastards, pushing papers and leading from the rear, those men who cleared their throats and looked at him, spoke of _them_ , as if they were… _less_. As if they were _beneath_ _them_ somehow just by being what they’d made them.

Those useless bastards trying to… what _were_ they trying to do?

He wasn’t sure.

He couldn’t think.

Everything was muddled and he must have still been covering his discomfort well because the questions continued.

“And the rest of your squad? Where were they?”

“They had both been incapacitated several minutes before the fight ended. Yonebayashi was exhausted from her earlier efforts and Mutsuki had been knocked unconscious.”

“How are you quite certain Rank 1 Mutsuki was unconscious? Did you ascertain his physical condition yourself?” Some snide man with poor eye contact and a bad hairpiece inquired, sniffing and scribbling something on his notepad.

“Yes.”

He flipped through pages of notes, “You said earlier that he was knocked out of the fight.”

“He was,” Kuki replied through aching teeth. “As you’re no doubt aware, my senses are enhanced. I could tell even from a distance that, based on the way he landed, he was unconscious when he hit the ground.”

“And how long did the fight last after that?”

“A minute, maybe two.”

Why did they _care_? What did it _matter_? Why did they keep asking and asking and _asking_? He’d told them all this already a dozen times, a dozen different ways. What was the point? What were they trying to accomplish?

Then he remembered the way Associate Special Class Washuu had smiled throughout the earlier interviews, tight and impersonal and smug, his glasses glinting in the dim sunlight that shone in through the window panels.

_Right._

Maybe it wasn't so difficult to figure out why after all.

**+++**

“Come along,” he’d said, harsh and firm, his clipped tones allowing no room for argument or refusal. He hadn’t even bothered to wait or check if Kuki were following him before he’d turned away and strode down the hall towards the elevator.

 _“Why did you come to fetch me yourself?”_ He doesn’t ask. “ _Isn’t this the sort of thing that’s beneath you?”_

“Normally we would be questioning your squad leader,” he commented, throwing the words over his shoulder as casually as it might talk about the weather. Kuki flinched wondering if he’d accidentally voiced one of those questions aloud. “However as Squad Leader Shirazu is no longer available to question, that duty now falls to you.”

The urge to tear him apart was almost _blinding_ in its intensity, his thoughts a sudden riot of rage and hate, swirling incoherent and screaming beneath the surface. He could practically feel his eye twitching, his Kagune flexing beneath the surface, longing to be free, to lash out, to…

_No._

That wasn’t….

He licked his lips, ran a bare, trembling hand over his face, winced at the unfamiliar sensation. He wished not for the first time that the pants had at least had pocket as he folded his hands behind his back.

 _“You’re testing me, aren’t you?”_ He wanted to ask, but if he tried, he’d choke on the words. It would be an admission that those words bothered him, a confession that Shirazu’s death was still an open wound, a weakness to be exploited.

Did he really care what he thought of him anymore?

Hadn’t he burned that bridge already?

Would it really matter if he disappointed him now?

Betrayed his expectations yet again?

It was as if the person he’d been before the Tsukiyama raid had been a dream of a peaceful, far off place he could no longer reach. He felt like a ship lost at sea, slowly sinking beneath the waves. As if Shirazu had ripped a ragged hole through the center of him as he left and everything he tried to forget or ignore had come bubbling up from the depths in his wake and all he could do was drown in it.

Credit. Advancement. All his great and lofty ambitions, his careful plans.

He couldn’t seem to recall why those things used to feel so important. Wasn’t sure if they ever would again or who he would be if he didn’t have those dreams, those ambitions to define him.

And who was he without that goal?

Just anger.

Just hate.

It felt like he was drowning.

Like nothing would ever be right again.

Like he wrecked everything he touched.

Shirazu was dead.

Sasaki despised him for his weakness.

Yonebayashi was a convenient tool, still a stranger even after all this time.

And Mutsuki…

He didn’t want to think about what Mutsuki was to him.

And he… he was still _weak_ , _pathetic_.

No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he would never be enough.

It should have been him. No one would have cared if it had been him. The others might have mourned him, maybe, a little, but it wouldn’t have been like this.

Shirazu had been the bridge connecting them all, the ground on which they stood, and without him everything would fall apart.

_“Haru… she… if I’m not there for her… let her die… peacefully…”_

Haru. Right. The sister. His sister.

She’d miss him too, wouldn’t she? It had been just the two of them, hadn’t it?

She was… she was sick, wasn’t she? Something… fuck, what was it? He’d always been going on and on and on about money, about needing to earn money. She was sick with something. What was it? He should know that shouldn’t he…? Mutsuki probably knew. He’d always been… he probably made it his business to know all the details, the important things. Sasaki probably knew as well.

All he knew was that it was _expensive_ , whatever it was. Had to be with the way Shirazu had always been going on about it.

Had he meant that?

Letting her die?

And did he care, even if he did?

Had he really wanted that or had he... had he just been trying to… even at the end had he been trying to save them?

That’s the sort of person he was after all.

But if there was something… something left of Shirazu to be saved… how could he not try to save it…? Save her?

The kinder thing would probably be to let her go. Let her die never knowing that her brother was gone, that he’d died trying to save others, trying to earn money to preserve her life.

Making her live with that… it was selfish probably, beyond selfish, but…

He was weak and he’d always been selfish.

But the idea of being responsible for another person’s health, life, seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. Panic made his breathing quick, shallow, and Special Class Washuu walked on oblivious. He didn’t want to… he’d never wanted to… why couldn’t he just….

_Fuck!_

He couldn’t do this here. Not here. He just needed to… to handle it. To get it under control, to keep calm and… make a plan. He could have a panic attack about the implications later. For now… for now…

If he was… if he was going to do this, he needed a plan. He needed money.

How much would it take? Shirazu had always been so desperate so probably more than a Rank 2 salary provided and Rank 1 hadn't been that large a bump so more than that too, probably.

Would they be even if he could manage this? Would he stop feeling this way if he could just… just save something, _anything_ , if he could just…

Maybe this was the price he paid to be himself again. Or maybe this was all just an elaborate excuse to make himself feel better about reaching for those old self-serving goals again before they’d even been able to put Shirazu’s body to rest.

He’d probably never know for sure.

But, regardless, if he were going to do this… he’d need money and to get that he would need to advance, he’d need to do whatever it took to get ahead.

_“I thought you of all people would be willing to come with me… well, whatever.”_

Whatever it took.

“Sir?” He murmured aloud, quickening his pace and falling into step behind him, his bare fingers, curling and writhing discomfort against the small of his back, twisting in the material of his shirt. It had been… a long time since he’d last been without gloves in public and it left him feeling… strange, exposed. Hiding them from sight at least made him feel a little better, a bit more like himself, if only by the smallest measure.

He could do this, it was fine, he could definitely do this.

“You will answer every question posed to you completely with as much detail as you can recall,” Associate Special Class Washuu commented as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “This undertaking of Ui’s has been a colossal failure and a massive waste of resources and if we’re to salvage anything of this mess it will be with whatever intelligence those who survived managed to glean. You’d do well to remember that when you give your statement.”

They came to a stop as they reached the end of the hall and Associate Special Class Washuu jabbed the little silver button on the wall to call the elevator.

Electronics hummed and Kuki could hear the tension wires contracting, metal grinding against metal in the shaft. It was distracting.

_“I thought you of all people would be willing to come with me… well, whatever. Urie Kuki…. I thought you had potential.”_

There likely wouldn’t be a better moment.

It was even possible that that might even be his last opportunity, his last chance to speak with the Associate Special Class alone.

There was no time for hesitation.

“Sir, I wanted to apologize for my impertinence during the raid. I realize now that I should have followed you immediately,” he murmured in a rush and every word tasted like betrayal. “I am very sorry if I disappointed you.”

It was what was necessary.

Maybe it was even what he deserved.

He’d surprised him.

He could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his head cocked to the side as if he were straining to hear some note of deception or distaste. There was a soft intake of breath, a slight increase in his heart rate only noticeable because he was paying attention.

“Better late than never, I suppose,” he'd responded after a few moments, obviously pleased. “I’ll be expecting better judgment from you in the future, Urie Kuki.”

The elevator car announced its arrival with a soft series of dings just before the doors swished open to reveal Sasaki. He stood in the center of the elevator, pale and somber in the black clothes they’d all been given, his hands clenched at his sides. After a telling moment, he'd smiled and something about that smile had made Kuki’s fingers tremble, made him feel like a naughty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

 

Maybe Mutsuki had been wrong all along.

Maybe Sasaki had always just seen him as an obstacle after all.

“Why hello, I didn’t expect Urie to be finished with his interviews already. Shall I escort him out?” He'd asked, his gaze giving away nothing, his placid smile like the slither of a snake moving unseen through tall grass.

“Absolutely not,” Associate Special Class Washuu scoffed, barely leashed disgust practically dripping from his lips. “I’m afraid Rank 1 Urie will be needed for a while longer. Your other two subordinates are in interrogation rooms F and H respectively. You’re welcome to check to see if they require your presence before your own interview. Urie, would you like First Class Sasaki to accompany you to your interview?”

The answer was clear, but he still found himself hesitating even if it was only for a moment. He wasn’t sure why. “No,” his voice was steady, his fingers painful where they knotted and clenched together behind his back.

Sasaki met his gaze silently his smile still fixed, slight as it was and whatever he saw there made him nod, more to himself than to either of them. He stepped out and to the side. He pressed a hand against the elevator door to hold it open for them. He bowed his head so his damp hair fell to obscure his features, "Very well."

Kuki could practically feel the pleasure radiating off Special Class Washuu in waves though he didn’t pretend to understand it. Had he always disliked Sasaki or was it just that Sasaki had defeated the enemy before he had a chance to show up at the last moment and steal the glory for himself?

Did it even matter?

He’d already made his decision, committed to his path.

And Sasaki had made it clear already that he….

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t care.

As he stepped past Sasaki into the elevator he heard the rustle of cloth and then he felt the soft, familiar press of leather against his hands where they were still hidden behind his back. He closed his fingers around the gloves with an intake of breath that felt like a sob, relief washing through him.

 _“Why?”_ He didn’t ask as he stepped away quickly into the elevator, already donning the gloves, pulling them over his hands with quick, shuttering jerks. He stared hard at his bowed head, the white and black of his hair, willing him to look at him. Willing him to _explain_. He didn’t scream at him, he didn’t demand the answers that he needed, but he _wanted_ to. _“Don’t you hate me now? You never cared about me so, why… why go to the trouble? You said it yourself, didn’t you? I was weak. It's my fault he's dead, so why would you do anything for me._ _”_

“Rank 1 Urie has never required my assistance,” Sasaki lied, his voice soft, expression still hidden from view as he relinquished his hold on the door. “However as his supervisor I will still be coming by to retrieve him and see him home safely. For my own peace of mind, of course.”

“Of course,” Associate Special Class Washuu echoed sourly as the doors slid closed.

**+++**

Why had he refused Sasaki’s help?

If he hadn’t he might not have been stuck in that interview room all day. He might even be back at the Chateau already and even if the idea of returning there filled him with dread, it would still have been better than having spent the day reliving those moments over and over again just so Associate Special Class Washuu could feel like he’d gotten... whatever it was he was getting out of all this. 

“Rank 1 Urie!”

There had been a voice shouting for his attention yet again, but it was distant, easy to ignore, and he was so very, very tired.

He hadn't cried when his father died. He wasn't sure why, but it had never been his father's death that had bothered him so much as the manner. It was that that had kept him up nights, that had kept his mind running around and around in exhaustive circles.

Left behind.

Alone.

And he had wondered, late at night as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep and yet unable to find the will to leave his bed, whether he'd thought someone would come to save him, if he’d thought he was strong enough to win, if he’d thought for even a moment that it might all work out. If it had even occurred to him that in doing that, he was leaving him all alone. If he’d even cared.

His father was a hero.

His father had died so others could live.

And he had promised himself that he wouldn't be like that.

He wouldn't be a fool like that.

People didn't like him.

They never had.

He wouldn’t die for them.

He’d had plans, just barely formed, impossible plans, but plans nonetheless.

People didn’t like him, but he didn't like them either.

Didn't want or need anything from them.

All he wanted to do was be alone. Solitary. To be strong, so strong that he would never have to rely on anyone. And for that he would do anything. He would claw his way to the top of the heap and at last they would look at him and see him.

See him, but never be able to touch him.

He hadn't liked being a member of the Quinx squad.

Not really.

And he liked it even less as the days wore into weeks, months, and finally years.

They muddled things, had made things different, difficult.

A knock sounded, sudden and loud, causing him to startle awake as the door was thrust open and immediately shut.

Sasaki bowed his head briefly in apology, even as his voice rang clear and firm across the room. “I’ve come to retrieve Urie.”

“We’re not done questioning him yet,” the man who’d been asking the latest series of questions replied quickly, flipping through his paperwork again. Urie guessed it was probably just to look like he had something to do.

“Aren’t you?” Sasaki questioned, cocking his head to the side, a pleasant smile on his lips, his eyes seeming to vanish behind the mask of that smile. “You’ve been speaking with him for six hours and twelve minutes by my count. Are you just particularly terrible at asking questions? If so, and I mean no offense, you should probably find a position more suited to your level of ability.”

“First Class Sasaki, I could have you written up for insubordination.”

“It’s fine,” Kuki commented, voice coming in an exhausted rush as he turned his bleary gaze down and away. “I can keep going, I’m fine, it’s fine.”

 _“I don’t need your help, I didn’t ask for your help.”_ He doesn’t say and he wonders if Sasaki can hear it anyway. Sometimes he'd thought Sasaki heard the things he didn't say perfectly and just chose to ignore them. _“I can handle this on my own. I don’t need you. Why are you even here?”_

When he chanced a glance back up, Sasaki’s smile hadn’t wavered at all, but his eyes were open, perfectly visible, as he turned to face him fully. He was certain he was the only one who could see it, that cold stranger staring at him from Sasaki’s smiling face, judging him, finding him desperately wanting.

Just like he had before.

"He wanted to see _you_... If only... you... returned sooner...!" It had felt like a tremendous effort, just to speak, just to _look_ at him. Shirazu was dead and it hurt. Yonebayashi had been sniffling, whimpering, not bothering to hide her pain as she whispered ' _Shiragin'_ again and again. Mutsuki had been trying to hold it together, but every once in a while something like a strangled sob would work its way free.

Everything _hurt_.

His hands were trembling and each word he'd uttered felt like a curse carved from his flesh.

He remembered the ghost of Sasaki's breath, warm and smelling of carnage as he’d confronted him, as he’d hissed hate and pain in his face. Remembered the way his stomach had turned, had rumbled like there was some greedy beast deep down inside, trying to claw its way up his throat.

That _smell_.

He’d bitten the inside of his cheek bloody as he’d squashed the urge to leap forward, to lick the taste from Sasaki's skin. He reeked of death. Let the madness of that impulse suffocate and die beneath the avalanche of his rage. He knew his Kakugan had activated and he didn’t care, he didn’t _care_.

Everything had hurt and then Sasaki had spoken and it had seemed to suck the air from the room.

 _"_...Is this my fault, now?" He’d murmured, his voice soft, wry, as if he’d expected that.

And he’d wanted to scream, _“Yes!”_ and _“No!”_ or maybe just scream, hit him, lash out, lose control. He wanted to cry, to vomit, to be held, anything, _anything_ that would stop the wild grief screeching, clawing, tearing his chest apart, ranting and raving about the unfairness of it all. Anything to just make it stop. To make it so he would stop feeling that way, to stop feeling altogether.

And he hated him.

He hated that bastard for dying. He hates him for making him feel this way. And yes, yes , maybe he wants someone to blame. Was that so wrong? And why shouldn’t he blame Sasaki? If Sasaki had been there, if he had trained them better, then maybe it could have been different, maybe they could have been different. Why couldn’t it be his fault? Why couldn’t it all be his fault? How often had he acted so strong, as if they could rely on him, depend on him, only to be absent when they needed him most? What were they to him?

Just a hindrance?

An obligation?

Why shouldn’t it be his fault? Why hadn’t he been there? Why hadn’t he been there when they needed him? When _he_ needed him? Why had he left them alone?

And even if he had been and things had still… he’d still been… at least Sasaki would have _been_ there. Shirazu had wanted to see him at the end. He’d wanted to see him. He’d wanted him at his side and he… and he….

It’s all he can do to keep his body in check, to keep from unleashing his Kagune and tearing into Sasaki as if he were just another ghoul, just another enemy. He….

Sasaki’s voice had been whisper soft, almost gentle, as it broke through his rampaging thoughts. "Who was it that was fighting alongside him, Urie? All losses in this world are due to a lack of ability."

And he trembled, quaked, Sasaki’s words cutting away all the bullshit and piercing the heart of him.

 _"Me,"_ he didn't whisper in reply.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe as Sasaki slipped past him on silent feet as if he'd ceased to exist. Had gone to the others, grieved with them.

And yet... Sasaki still offered one more thing as he passed him by, so quiet he wouldn't have heard it at all if his senses weren't as good as they were.

“...If you want to curse someone, curse your own weakness."

He'd sounded so... sad.

Curse his own weakness.

He did.

Because Sasaki had been  _right_.

And he knew that.

He’d known that all along.

He was never enough, no matter what he did, and he never would be.

He was startled back to the present by the light touch of Sasaki's hand settling against his shoulder, tentative and uncertain, as if he could hardly bear to do it.

He couldn't really blame him.

Shirazu had died and it was his fault and now the whole world was different.

And somehow also just the same.

“It’s all right, you’ve done well," Sasaki commented, quietly his expression somber.

“But-“

“I wasn’t asking, Urie. Please go. I’ll only be a moment." 

“Sir,” he’d replied, shoving to his feet, more reflex than intention as he turned abruptly to the door, ignoring the protests of those distant men. “ _I don’t need your help,” h_ e doesn’t say. _“I didn’t ask you to do this._

He ground his teeth together so hard he was surprised they didn’t crack under the pressure. Or maybe they did and the fissures healed as soon as they formed. His hands were trembling with rage, his eyes burning. _“I hate you,”_ he doesn’t call back, like a spoiled, scolded child. _“Why do you keep pretending you care?_ _Why won't you just leave me alone?”_

He jerked the door open and stepped out into the hall, surprised to find it deserted.

Sasaki had told him to wait.

He kept walking.

He couldn’t stop.

He _couldn’t_.

He took the stairs a dozen at a time, leaping from one landing to the next, ankles popping, cracking under the pressure shooting pain like fire through his nerves as fractures formed and healed.

Down.

Down.

Down.

Down.

_Down._

He burst through the door at the bottom of the stairwell and he was certain someone said something to him, tried to speak to him, but he didn't stop. Couldn’t stop. He couldn’t do anything but walk faster, long strides eating up the distance between his body and the exit.

He didn’t stop outside, didn’t stop after the first block or the second or the third, was running flat out by the time he hit the fourth.

By the time he finally dropped to the ground beneath a filthy overpass, collapsing to the cold concrete, exhausted, he might have been miles, years from headquarters, from the Chateau, from Sasaki and Mutsuki and Yonebayashi and everything they represented.

He could have been on another planet and it still wouldn't ever be quite far enough.

There was a horrible noise that cut the air, barely a whisper beneath the roar of the early evening traffic. A low keening sound, a song of loss and grief, a familiar half-forgotten melody that he’d first heard long, long ago. It rattled through his chest as he curled his gloved fingers against it. He would have pulled the beating heart from his chest if he'd thought it would help, but the pain was everywhere, inescapable.

He let his forehead crash down against the filthy ground and screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated. Thank you for reading. :)
> 
>  **Timeline:** Chapter One took place the morning after Shirazu's death, Chapter Two in the afternoon and this chapter begins late afternoon and ends in the early evening. 
> 
> **Locker Room:** When two different people remember a set of events, they remember different things because different moments have are weighted differently and mean different things from one person to the next. The moment Urie thinks about here occurs right after they arrive, the moment Mutsuki recalled in Chapter One occurred just before they left. What happened between will be dealt with later on.
> 
>  ** _“Urie, I’m… I don’t… I’m sorry, you smell really…"_ :** Yeah, that moment will come back around and you'll get the context for it, probably in the next Mutsuki-focused chapter.
> 
>  **Just an FYI, for the next chapter...** Yeah, I've kind of been spinning my wheels waiting around to update to see if the canon story was going where I thought it was going. Turns out it pretty much was. Next chapter will be up pretty soon.


End file.
